“But you better see the Automobile club. They are a big help in everything where autos are concerned,” advised the police captain.
At a centrally located garage the boys stopped to repeat the same questions they had asked so many times before. The man in charge had heard the story of a car mysteriously disappearing from the South Fork road beyond Port Greeley, but that was all. “You can’t do better than see the Automobile club,” he added, however. “They are the ones to get you the right dope if there’s any way to get it.”
Although it was still too early to expect to find a secretary or other officer present, the boys decided to visit the club headquarters at once. A pleasant-faced man was reading a motor journal as they entered. To him they stated the purpose of their call.
“By George, that’s interesting!” said the stranger thoughtfully. “Wait a minute!” Reaching for a desk phone, the pleasant-faced man was soon in touch with the person he desired. Briefly he told of the two young callers and their errand. “All right, that’s the ticket!” he said, after some conversation over the wire, and hung up the receiver.
Asking the boys to accompany him, the agreeable stranger piloted them to an office in a large brick building where he introduced them to a gentleman who seemed hardly more than a boy in appearance, though his age was probably twenty-five. His name was Freeland Cape. (“A regular Cape of Good Hope to us,” Phil said afterward.)
“Sit down,” said Mr. Cape to the young strangers, as their escort left them. Thanking him, Phil and Dave accepted the proffered chairs. Without ado Mr. Cape was informed of the loss of the Six and the search thus far so unsuccessful.
“Queerest affair I ever heard of,” was the young man’s comment. “But tell me more of this Torpedo car. There was a Torpedo stolen in Harkville—(Phil and Dave exchanged glances)—an extraordinary case. And of course it is evident that the parties who, for some reason, abandoned the machine you found, grabbed your car directly afterward.”
“It would seem so, but it is hardly the case,” put in Phil quickly. “We have had that notion pretty well pounded out of us by different people, especially by Mr. Fobes, the policeman at Griffin. ‘Two separate transactions,’ were his words and he made it pretty plain. And of course we were, and are, more anxious to locate our own car than anything else. So all along, ‘two separate transactions’ we have had right in mind.”
Young Mr. Cape scratched the crown of his head with one forefinger while he thought for a few seconds. “There never is a theory so exclusively inclusive but some other theory can be suggested,” said he. “I may be wrong. Without knowing anything about the Torpedo you found, I’d say the two separate facts constitute a plausible supposition. But I do know and you know now, that the machine you found was probably the one stolen from Harkville. Who stole it? We do not know, but it is pretty plain that no one other than the original thieves had the car on that South Fork road, wherever they may have been with it since first it disappeared. Now that lands in the very vicinity of your car, at the time of your loss, the fellows who stole one automobile. And, having stolen one, no doubt they would just as lief take another and better one. The man who was seen with your basket may have been only a tramp. If your suitcases were left behind, the basket was thrown out, as well, at the same place or near by.”
“Any way you put it, though,” suggested MacLester, his brow puckered in thought, “we are left right in the middle of it all, again. Go one way, and we might find who owned the Torpedo. Go the other way—and we stand a better chance, I should think, of finding our own Six and the thieves. Whether they stole both cars, or simply ours, isn’t a question in the case at all just yet.”